To my mother who birthed me, without knowing who I was or who I was to become. Who loves me when she knows nothing about me, and loves me still when she knows everything. Who doesn’t know everything, but never pretends to either. Who didn’t do everything right, but does everything with love. Whose heart I have stupidly shattered over and over again, but does not let that shrewd her openness. To my mother who I have too often not treated the way she deserved, I love you and the love you have for me from the pits of myself, and I have since before I was me and before I even knew there was a me to be.
To the girls who made me: whether it be through kindness or intellect, you live in me. From the girls who asked me where I got my jeans from to the girls who wrapped and arm around me and held me to their chests, heaving, breasts buoys as we rocked in saltwater tears.
To the girls in Amsterdam, who ignited a spark in me that I’d been blowing out since kindergarten; the fire flared in the city and then burnt out again once I left, a strange explosion that charred me inside and out, but it again flickers steadily inside my chest. I don’t know if I will ever see you again, but you are in me. You reached inside me and turned me inside out, wet clay twisting gently in your soft hands.
To my best friend, who taught me what it means to have a real friend, and to be one as well. Who taught me how to think and how to breathe. Who listens to me when I call her, answers the phone to my sobbing. Who works harder than almost anyone I know, and yet stays humble. Who understands how I work, how my family works, and slots herself in seamlessly. I’m sorry for everyone who doesn’t know you, who can’t let your love into their lives.
To the girls who chatted with me at Sunday School, normal and easy in a way that is foreign to foreigners. You were better than me, and mostly still are, but never let me feel it. When faithlessness crept into my heart, you never let me feel it; I love God because He is God, but I love you because you helped me find God on my own terms.
To my cousin, who felt the same anguishes I did, but came out funnier and kinder. You’re a light in my life certainly, but a light to others as well. Thanks for showing me how to paint my face in makeup and not bat a beautifully curled eyelash no matter what anyone else says.
To the girls who are a little bit older than me, and certainly wiser, too. I am forever grateful that you took me under your wing and never grew annoyed with my naïveté masked in confidence. The knowledge you imparted on me is not wasted, I promise. Thanks for reminding me boys ain’t s***. You were right. You are the embodiment of not dumbing yourself down, even when it seems inconsequential, for the approval of any man.
To the girls who have taught me anything, you have taught me everything. I am ridiculously lucky to be alive at the same time as so many wonderful women, and thankful for the work women of the past have done for us, and I am achingly hopeful for the women who are still to be birthed, to be brought into the world without the plastic encasings of shame and injustice. Be a friend; it costs nothing to support your local girl gangs.
